


Anticipation

by hailbabel



Series: The Games We Play [2]
Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/F, Foreplay, Lesbians, Sex Toys, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27944738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailbabel/pseuds/hailbabel
Summary: Nancy ponders the dynamics of her relationship with Isabella while exacting a little bit of pleasurable revenge.
Relationships: Nancy Birch/Isabella Fitzwilliam
Series: The Games We Play [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046413
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	Anticipation

Nancy sat back and kicked up her feet, propping them on the kitchen table, and crossed her arms over her chest, birch resting in her lap. The chair creaked in protest as she rocked it back and forth, but she wasn’t listening. She pressed her mouth into a hard line and stared, unseeing, at the wall. It was somewhere around midday, and light still poured in from outside, illuminating a neat row of pots and pans hung up on the wall. She noticed, with some irritation, that there was still a bit of soot smudged on the wall, way up near the ceiling. Generally, this wouldn’t bother her at all, except she was pondering a question and neither the pots and pans, nor the soot were helping her in the least. 

She and Isabella had been having their… Nancy paused in her thoughts. Affair? Courtship? She wasn’t a cull, because Nancy wasn’t being paid. A sour taste filled her mouth. She had thought once to demand that Isabella pay her, but the words had never actually come out of her mouth. The more she thought about the idea, the more she hated it, though it did make her wonder exactly why.

She was a harlot. Or at least, she had once been, and she could use the money. But it made her feel vile to think of it. Dirty, even, in a way that was both confusing and inconvenient. She had resolved not to bring it up after all, and making that decision had made her feel better. (And yet still more confused.)

But that wasn’t the thought occupying her mind just now. The exact definition of their dalliance (no, that wasn’t the word, either) wasn’t so important. She was thinking about teacups. Specifically, all the teacups she’d dropped over the last several weeks whenever Isabella entered a room. And all the times she’d dropped her hat. Or her birch. Or that one really good bottle of gin, which still made her a bit sad to think about. Then there was the time she tripped over her own boots. And the time she fell off that ladder.

Nancy stroked the birch in her lap. She didn’t mind so much letting Isabella get the better of her. But she did mind that she hadn’t been able to get her back. Not yet, at least. But how to do it?

That was the thought she found herself pondering. She was Nancy Fucking Birch. Surely it couldn’t be that hard.

When the kitchen held no answers for her, Nancy hopped up and rounded the table, tapping it with her birch as she went. She went to listen at the bottom of the stairs, tap, tap, tapping as she went. On the numerous occasions when Mags, or Charlotte, and now Fanny would roll their eyes at her she would claim it helped her to think. But, mostly it just made her feel better.

She could send a filthy note. But then she wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing Isabella’s face.

In the foyer, Nancy could hear the usual music of Fanny’s: creaking beds and the legato swell of multiple mouths moaning, punctuated by a periodic exclamation of “fuck!”

Bringing her here would do nothing. She’d seen about as much of the inside of this place as she did of her own house.

Nance wandered into the parlour where a couple of the girls were wooing a group of men. They were having a jolly time, drinking and laughing. One of them brandished an oblong object and tossed it to the other with a riotous laugh. The second girl giggled and waved the thing temptingly at the man whose lap she was sat on. The man took it and tossed it to one of his companions, who not only missed catching it, but nearly spilled his drink as well in the process.

This piqued Nancy’s interest. The object in question was about eight inches in length and made of smooth, polished bone. It was quite an exaggeration of the male member, from what Nancy knew of them, but realism wasn’t exactly its purpose.

Nancy smiled to herself. Now _that_ was an idea. Isabella had had her fun. Now it was Nancy’s turn.

A little bribe in the form of a couple of coins and a bottle of one of her lesser spirits was all it took to get one of North’s men to watch the door for her for a while, and she was on her way, a satchel slung across one shoulder and a certain spring in her step.

She patted the bag fondly as she arrived at Isabella’s, going over her plan. She found that knowing what she wanted to do with a cull beforehand always helped her to keep her head when it was time for the doing. Even though Isabella was not a cull, the idea was the same.

She was shown in by a Mr. Downing, a decent chap who Nancy had seen at the Boar’s Head a time or two when he wasn’t on the job. He, unlike some other servants of the upper-class who took their uniforms and powder pots too seriously, didn’t much seem to mind Nancy. Then again, she knew exactly where he wet his whistle on his off time.

“Where’s your mistress, eh?”

“The Lady is entertaining some guests. Shall I show you to the parlour?”

“Nah. But send her a message for me, hm? Tell her to meet me in her study when she has a mo.”

The man nodded and the two parted ways, Mr. Downing to the downstairs parlour, and Nancy upstairs to the study.

Nancy closed the door softly behind herself, and took a stroll about the room. It was bright and sunlit with tall windows on the second floor. Tall, imposing bookcases lined the walls, their shelves packed with books Nancy would never read. She did, however, amuse herself thinking of how the authors of those books might object to them being witness to what she was about to do. The desk was a big, heavy affair set in the middle of the room, turned away from the double doors that lead to a private balcony. Waste of a good view, in her opinion. She supposed it must have been expensive. The dark wood was coated in a lacquer and its smooth surfaces bore no trace of the tools that crafted it. To Nancy, this translated to the desk being able to take a good bit of jostling, a fact which she tucked away for later. She went around the room, drew all the sheer curtains, and leaned against the desk to wait.

When the door clicked open, Isabella entered in a resplendent gown of white and gold brocade. It never failed to dazzle Nancy when Isabella entered a room, and that perhaps was why she had such a hard time keeping hold of anything when she did. It was a good thing, then, that she had specifically chosen to lay her birch by the door, because the image of Isabella just now made the tips of her fingers tingle. The dark of her hair was a pretty and stark contrast to her fair face, made even more so by a relatively light coating of powder and rouge. Her lips were painted crimson with such a careful hand that Nancy marveled a bit at the way it exaggerated the swell of her bottom lip. Teardrop earrings of gold and diamonds glittered in the soft light of the room, and similar jewels adorned her neck, her wrists, her fingers.

She moved with a practiced grace, and a sway that drew Nancy’s eyes to the cinche and swell of her waist and hips. Somewhere in the back of her brain, behind thinking about that waist, Nancy noted that her guests must be important indeed for her to have dressed to this degree.

Perfect.

Her face was a porcelain mask of propriety. At least, it was for a moment, and then her painted lips turned up at the corners with a sly smile.

“What a pleasant surprise to find you here, Nancy. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Her voice was smooth and composed, like running a finger over the rim of a fine crystal glass.

It made Nancy want to reach out and touch her, to be next to her, fold her arms around her and--

But, no. This was not the time for that.

“You haven’t had any pleasure yet, Isabella,” Nancy said. She let her eyes pass indulgently over her one last time before she took that feeling and put a careful lid on it. Now was the time for her to be master of her feelings. It was time to be Nancy Birch, Mistress of Perversions. “Lock the door.”

A look passed over Isabella’s face at the commanding tone of Nancy’s voice. Nancy guessed that she wasn’t sure how to take it. Still, she did as she was bid.

“Come here.”

Isabella looked Nancy over. The last time she had taken such a tone with Isabella had been… exciting for the both of them. If walls could talk, the kitchen of Greek Street would have a story to tell about a particular gin-soaked night, and a sweet, sharp indulgence that Nancy would very much like to repeat one of these nights.

Isabella acquiesced, approaching with a sway to her hips that Nancy followed with her eyes. She’d never get tired of that, but this was a game. Isabella knew how to turn her into mush, knew how to make Nancy want her. Nancy licked her lips as her insides began to go hot and her mind filled with a dull, pleasant buzz.

“Are you going to give it to me, then?” Isabella advanced upon Nancy until the skirts of her dress were flowing around Nancy’s own legs. She drew her fingers down Nancy’s lapel, pretending to straighten it. Her perfume filled what little bit of space there was between them with some heavy, flowery scent. “My pleasure?”

It would have been so easy to just give in to the temptation of her warm body.

Nancy slipped an arm around her waist, turning them both so Isabella was leaned back against the desk. Isabella braced both of her hands against Nancy’s chest, and Nancy rocked up on her toes as if to kiss those red, red lips.

Isabella’s mouth parted and her eyes were drawn to Nancy’s own mouth. She leaned down, expecting to be met halfway.

“Can’t, can I?” Nancy said when her mouth was not an inch from Isabella’s. “Don’t want to smudge you. You’re as pretty as a picture, but your paint is still all...” Nancy leaned in further, pulling Isabella close to her, her mouth brushing the curve of Isabella’s ear. “...wet.”

Isabella huffed a little laugh. She lowered her eyes, and the lines of her neck tensed. Thinking about brushing her lips over those lines made Nancy tingle. She made a motion, as if to draw her nose across the bare expanse of her shoulder. She could have done, there was little danger of ruining any powder here, but the way Isabella’s chest expanded with her breath, the way she held it, waiting. She wanted Nancy to touch her, to kiss her, to--

But, no. Nancy would make her wait a little longer.

“Is that what you called me here for? To not give me anything?”

Nancy followed the lacy border of Isabella’s dress down to the swell of her breasts, smooth and ivory and plump. Nancy did press her lips there to feel their warmth and hear Isabella sigh softly. Isabella braced her hands against the edge of the desk and pressed her chest upward. Nancy hummed in pleasure, Isabella’s breasts pressing against her mouth. She gave them another kiss, reveling in the way the smooth flesh slipped silken over her lips.

She put her other arm around Isabella, pulling her tight, groaning into the soft, infinite warmth of her bosom.

Oh, this was dangerous. She could stay here, pressing into this feeling forever.

“Nancy,” Isabella said, her voice tight and pleading. “Nancy, if you don’t kiss me right now--.”

“Naughty girls should not make demands,” Nancy said, finally tearing herself away from the bliss of her tits. “As it happens, I do have something for you.”

Nancy reached down and lifted Isabella’s skirts. She drew her hands up Isabella’s legs, digging the tips of her fingers into their pliant curves, letting them drift around to the backs of her soft thighs. If she reached a little further, she could almost touch the warm, moist crease of her cunny.

Isabella made a noise like a sharp whimper.

“W-What is it you have for me?” she said as she gently parted her legs, silently willing Nancy to delve further.

But Nancy withdrew her hands. She took Isabella by the wrist and guided her to reach into the bag at her hip, knowing what she would find there. It was a beautiful thing really, as leather cocks go. Gently curved and made of dense, heavy wood, it was wrapped in smooth, buttery leather. The stitching was expertly tucked inside, leaving the smallest seam from base to tip. A thin layer of cotton beneath the leather gave it a bit of pliancy and a pleasant girth.

Nancy made a fist, wrapping Isabella’s fingers around the toy. The little bit of padding gave way beneath their grip and Nancy pushed away an errant thought about the tip of that fiendish thing pressing somewhere else. Somewhere pink and lovely.

It was a delicious thought. One she would tuck away for now, to be taken out when she could replay it over and over in her mind. When there was no one else around to see her soften, see her ache. For now, she was the one doing the tempting, inflicting similar thoughts to make Isabella’s insides tremble, her thighs wet.

Nancy’s other hand, still caressing Isabella’s backside, noted how she stiffened as her fingers closed over the object, and Nancy allowed herself a little slice of satisfaction.

“What is that?”

“That’s for you,” Nancy said, a lightness to her voice. She was watching Isabella, whose head was tipped back and her lips pressed together. She was breathing hard, near to panting. The swell of her chest rose and fell with every breath, a mesmerizing ebb and flow of warm, silken skin. “Every inch.”

Isabella opened her mouth, searching for words that didn’t come. It was lovely to watch her squirm so, a sweet kind of revenge for all the times she had tortured Nancy.

Nancy went on, “It goes in that hot little hole you have for me, over and over until you’re calling my name.”

Beneath the pale powder she wore, Isabella began to blush, the florid colour dampened by her makeup. It gave Nancy a prickly sort of pleasure.

“Nancy, please, this is torture,” she said quietly. She hesitated a moment, and then said, “I want you to touch me. Please.”

It was almost enough to break the thin shell of Nancy’s composure.

Almost.

“That so? Well, what I want is for you to beg me, Isabella. I want you to beg me to let you come on my cock. And when you do, when you’re sweet cunny is wrapped around me and you’re trembling from tip to heel,” Nancy paused here to appreciate Isabella’s soft little sigh of want. “I’m going to keep fucking you, Isabella.”

Something in Nancy sprang open, some deep well of wanting that she was only just keeping back and the soft, smooth tone of her voice was lost to her. When she spoke again, it was in a low, dark voice from deep in her chest.

“I’m going to keep fucking you until your legs shake, until you’re completely spent and you tell me to stop. Until the only name you know is mine.”

Nancy released her grip on Isabella’s backside. She put her hand between Isabella’s legs, already eagerly parted for her, and drew two fingers up the slick slit of her cunt.

Isabella whimpered at the touch, and Nancy was grateful as it gave her something else to focus on, something to think about besides how much she wanted to thrust her fingers between those lips and how easily they would yield for her.

She gave it another stroke, coating her fingers in that slick fluid, making Isabella lean back against the desk to open her legs further. Nancy closed her eyes, and she could just see the way her pink lips would part, yearning to be filled.

She released her grip on Isabella’s hand, and instead reached for a kerchief in her pocket. She withdrew her hand from between Isabella’s legs with more than a little regret, wiping her fingers clean, consoling herself with thoughts of later when she would be able to indulge herself more fully.

“Nancy, I _want_ you,” Isabella pleaded.

Of all the pleasures in the world, watching the way her lust came through in that moment, the way her face was almost pained with it, was not quite as good as actually tasting her. But it would do for now.

Nancy leaned in to brace one hand on the desk. With her other, she tucked the now soiled kerchief into one of Isabella’s pockets.

“I know,” she said simply. “But you’ll have to wait ‘til later.”

She placed a soft, barely-there kiss on Isabella’s chin. And then she turned around and left.

The sight of Isabella’s stunned face--her big, doe eyes, and her painted lips parted in wordless protest-- was among the greatest pleasures Nancy had ever known.


End file.
